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How rapid has been Helen's progress in story-telling may be seen from the following tale, which also shows her tenderness of heart.

A SAD STORY.

ABOUT eight o'clock, one very cold evening last winter, a little girl and her teacher were hurrying along Broadway, South Boston, anxious to reach their bright, warm home; for, although they were very warmly dressed, their feet and hands were almost frozen, and the falling snowflakes made it difficult for them to find their way safely. "How cold those little boys, standing under the street light, must be!" thought the little girl. "I wonder why they do not go home, out of the storm." Her teacher explained to her that they were little newsboys, and that they were trying to sell their papers, because some of them were poor, and needed money to buy food for themselves. The child's eyes filled with tears, to think how sad and lonely the little fellows looked, and when she got home she wrote this sad story. It is only a story, but I think it may have happened to just one little newsboy.

One bitterly cold night last January a little newsboy stood before a large house on Broadway, in South Boston, trying to sell his papers. Dear little stranger! how sad and lonely he looked, standing there close to the lamp post crying, Herald, Globe, and Evening Record. The busy people hurried past him, eager to reach their own pleasant homes and loved ones. Very, very few paused to buy a paper from the little fellow, who stood shivering with cold under the street light. The poor boy gazed up at the windows of the great house, and thought how warm and comfortable the children inside were; and his eyes filled with tears at the thought of his own loneliness. He leaned against the lamp post, tired and cold and hungry. He could hardly stand alone, but after a moment he said to himself, "I must try to sell just one paper, or I shall starve before day." He made a great effort to move; and just then the door of the great house opened, and a little girl called him to approach. He climbed the slippery steps as fast as he could.

"Come in!" said the kind-hearted little girl, "and warm yourself by the fire. I fear you are almost frozen, and I am sure you are hungry, too." She took his rough, cold hand in hers, and gently led him into the hall. "Thank you!" said the poor boy, gratefully.

Then he whispered mournfully, "I have had nothing to eat since morning."

"How very pitiful!" said the child tenderly. "You shall have a nice warm supper in a few minutes."

But suddenly one of the servants appeared in the hall, and ordered the ragged stranger out of the house.

"Oh, Mary!" cried the little girl, "he is cold and weary and hungry. Please let him sit by the fire and get warm, and have something to eat."

"No!" said Mary decidedly. "Your mother would be displeased if she knew such a person was in the house." Then she pushed the weeping boy out on the steps, in the snow and the cold, and closed the door.

"Poor little brother!" cried Violet, opening the door again. "Wait a moment, and I will give you some money, and you can buy something to eat."

She vanished, and returned in a moment with a bright silver dollar her papa had given her that morning, to buy a new toy. She gave it to the boy with a sweet kiss and a gentle good-bye. "Try to be cheerful!" she said, "and whenever you come on this street, I will try to see you and speak to you." Then she shut the door.

The little newsboy was too cold and desolate to think of food. He longed to lie down in some sheltered place, and rest. He walked on and on, until he came to a quiet street, where there were few people passing, and looked around for a sheltered nook; but he saw none, so he crept close to a stone wall, and lay down with his papers in his arms, and the bright silver dollar the little girl had given him clasped tight in one hand.

In the morning a gentleman found the little newsboy still sleeping peacefully, and when he brushed away the soft, white snow that covered his pale face, he saw that the child was dead.

HELEN KELLER.

I am convinced that the freedom and accuracy which characterize Helen's use of English are due quite as much to her familiarity with books as to her natural aptitude for learning language. When at the institution she spends much of her time in the library. Books are to her unfailing sources of delight. She often reads for two or three hours in succession, and then lays aside her book reluctantly. One day as we left the library I noticed that she appeared more serious than usual, and I asked the cause. "I am thinking how much wiser we always are when we leave here than we are when we come," was her reply.

In a letter written to a little friend last January, she describes the library quite fully. Here is a part of the letter: --

I am sitting in a sunny corner of the library, with many curious and interesting companions. The books please me most, because they have so much to tell me about everything. They are very wise. The beautiful shells and the minerals have many secrets to tell us, but we have to study a great deal before we can find them out. The stuffed animals and the models help to make my lessons easy.